There is nothing I can say
about what is between
mother and child.
Hearing of her death,
my life is darkened.
Like a reed basket,
the years wove us together.
In the blank air
the smoke from a single incense stick
is my last word with her.
(written when he was sixteen, on pilgrimage,
hearing of his mother’s death)
Shundo David Haye - Zen Priest 
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